


The Significance of Scars

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [13]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Finally!, Grief/Mourning, Hope, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22303528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Watson adapts to life after two years in prison, finds solace in helping the poor as he seeks a reason for his survival. A cryptic, unexpected message, followed by an even more unexpected visitor, changes everything.This is part of a Victorian AU where Reichenbach happened, but Moran won and carried on what Moriarty had begun. At this point, Watson has served two years in prison for gross indecency and Holmes is presumed dead, but actually working his way home.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 18
Kudos: 66





	The Significance of Scars

Holmes was fascinated by my scar. It’s an ugly thing, flesh torn by a Jezail bullet and badly repaired, a constant reminder of what that moment took from me. It gave me limited movement in my shoulder, nerve damage in the arm that made it impossible to hold a scalpel steady enough to perform surgery.

I was still convalescent when I met Holmes. With his uncanny skill, he observed not only that I’d been wounded in Afghanistan (not Iraq), but also where and how the bullet had entered, almost as if he could see the scar through my vest, shirt, and coat. His curiosity about it annoyed me intensely. Being ill with enteric fever, I felt awful most of the time, and may have snapped at him more than once when he asked questions about my wounds.

His interest seemed academic to me. He noted the path of my bullet the way he might analyse the wounds of a murder victim, pointing out what muscles had been torn, what bones grazed, and what tissues had most likely been cut away after the infection set in.

After we became lovers, he was careful not to put weight on my shoulder, knowing it would cause me pain, even after months of healing. When we lay together, he sometimes turned on the light so he could see, and would trace that twisted landscape of my shoulder with his fingers. It bothered me less than before, knowing that he was not repulsed by what he saw, but he must have sensed my embarrassment. As we lay together one night he asked, “Why does it bother you?”

“Because it reminds me of everything I lost that day,” I replied with some bitterness. “Why does it fascinate you?”

He smiled and gently placed his lips on the scar. “Because it reminds me of everything I gained that day.”

And I understood: had I not been wounded, we would not have met. I would not have come home and looked for someone to share rooms with. Our entire relationship depended on an event I had considered a misfortune.

“No doubt the significance of your wound did not impress you as you lay in hospital,” he said. ”It impressed me, however, the moment we met.”

My scar makes its presence known every day. When it does, I remember that conversation, Holmes’ observation that everything that happens to us has outcomes both good and ill.

I carried new scars now, not visible ones, but they ached nonetheless. Prison left marks on me, the isolation especially. I didn’t even know how deep that wound was until I rejoined society and was expected to converse with people.

But the deepest was the loss of Holmes.

I have lost both parents and my only brother. Each was properly mourned, and over time the loss became more bearable. But I had lived a lie since the day I lost Holmes; I could not grieve him as he deserved.

I would always carry this wound on my soul, I felt, and the pain would never leave me. The chain of consequences that had led to his fall, and that had followed me home, was heavy and long. But there were undoubtedly other consequences that I had yet to recognise. I still lived, and perhaps there was a reason for my survival. I made it my purpose to find that reason.

Christmas over, the days slowly began to lengthen. The calendar turned a page, and I was startled to realise that it was 1898 already and we were on a downward slope into a new century. Queen Victoria was nearly eighty, and I myself would turn forty-six in a few weeks. Almost seven years had passed since Holmes’ death, over two years since I’d stood in the dock and admitted to gross indecency.

I started taking care of my neighbours, making myself available to listen to coughs, stitch wounds, pull rotten teeth, and deliver babies. Stamford stopped by once a week to see what supplies I might need. I knew he was taking a tremendous risk in giving me powders and tinctures, and appreciated what it meant for the poor. I suspected that he was doing it for me as well, understanding how useless I felt.

It kept my mind occupied and my hands busy, and I knew the people I served needed my help, but I wondered whether it would ever be enough to fill the emptiness inside me. Stamford thought that prison had gutted me, and made efforts to help me feel useful, but prison had only beaten the fight out of me. I was already gutted, and had been since that day at Reichenbach.

After two years of dreamless sleep, I began to dream again. Since my return, I’d avoided visiting Marylebone and Baker Street, but sometimes in my dreams I found myself there. These were not nightmares like the ones I had after Switzerland, but strange, vacant visions that made me ache and weep at the emptiness. I suppose my mind was forcing me to go there in order to process my loss.

One night I dreamed that I sat before the hearth in our rooms at Baker Street, waiting up for Holmes. There had been many such nights in our early years together, when he would go out sleuthing on his own. I remembered the anxiety those evenings caused me, unable to sleep, worrying that he would take one chance too many. I would light the fire and put on the kettle so that the room would feel warm and inviting when he returned. In my dream, I waited, and finally heard his feet on the stairs. As I rose to greet him, I had one of those transitional moments when one recognises the trappings of a dream for what they are. I woke, weeping, all of it vanishing.

There was no one with whom I could share my grief. I might have taken up writing again, but paper and ink cost money, and I was already living on the charity of the good souls who called themselves my friends.

I made rounds, calling on those who were now my patients. They paid me with tea and biscuits and conversation, and I listened to their jokes, their stories, their complaints and their sorrows. Their trust gave me back the very things I had almost lost— patience, and compassion, and endurance.

I received another visitor towards the end of January, Thomas Quick, who had been Mycroft’s solicitor and financial advisor. I suppose that he kept in touch with people Mycroft had known. He brought me a letter and a small parcel from Mary. I opted not to open these missives in his presence, and instead thanked him for all he’d done to manage the elder Holmes’ affairs at the end.

“They took it all,” he told me. “Just as he predicted, they seized what little he’d kept for the end.”

“And you?” I asked. “How have you fared?”

“My association with Mr Holmes was impenetrable to those wolves,” he said. “He was a most cautious man and left them few clues to unravel. I have not suffered because of our friendship, but business in general has changed. It’s difficult to advise people when things are in such flux.”

“Have you seen her?” I nodded at the unopened letter. “Mary, I mean. How are they faring?”

“I have not seen her, but I assist her in managing the funds Mycroft left her, so we correspond regularly. Your family have enough to be comfortable, as Mr Holmes intended.” He smiled, a bit embarrassed, I thought. “She has asked if you need anything. As I am a cosigner on her account, she instructed me to draw an amount that would help you establish yourself.”

“No,” I said at once. “She owes me nothing. That money is for her and Rose.”

He nodded. “I told her you would say that. Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “This arrived yesterday. No idea what it is.” He handed me a package about the size and weight of a book.

When he had gone, I opened the parcel from Mary. As expected, I found the items I had entrusted to her. There was one more item I had not expected: a small, framed photo of my daughter Rose, who was now ten. I had not seen her since she was two. Mary had always hoped that she would look more like me, considering herself plain, and that plainness a disadvantage. I held the photo a long time, gazing at this small person who had come from our union. She appeared to have my eyes and square jaw, but there was something serious and sympathetic about her expression that was completely Mary.

I read the note she had included:

_Dear John,_

_I thought it might cheer you to have these tokens that I’ve kept for you._

_Mr Quick tells me that you have found a place to live until you get established. He predicts that you will refuse to accept any money from me, but I have instructed him to make the offer. Should you ever need anything, my offer stands._

_Rose is doing well. She is a bright girl and interested in many things. Though it may seem heartless to you, I have allowed her to believe that you have gone abroad. It is simply too difficult to explain the circumstances to her at this point. I know you want to see her, but she is not old enough to understand yet. She remembers you, but not well. I do not regret our marriage or blame you for what happened; nor do I blame Mr Holmes. Things are what they are, and we have no choice but to carry on._

_You need not worry about us. We live well enough, comfortably but not extravagantly, thanks to the generosity of Mr Holmes and his brother._

_Be well, John._

_Mary_

She had gone back to using her maiden name, I noted from the return address; I assumed that the publicity of my trial had been difficult for her. The divorce had come through during that time. It had not been difficult to prove her case after I admitted my guilt.

I wondered if Rosie still had her Papa Dolly, or if Mary had decided that was one more thing too difficult to explain to her. Thinking of that long ago Christmas was painful. I would not know what to say to my little girl now.

Sighing, I turned to the second package. There was no return address, but the postal mark indicated that it had been sent from Paris. I didn’t know anyone living in France. _A book_ , I thought, hefting it in my hand. I began pulling the paper off, wondering if there would be a note inside.

There was no letter, no note. The book was _La Divina Comedia_. Obviously the sender didn’t know me well if they thought I could read Italian. It was quite old, I could see, the leather cover scarred from use, and had clearly been read and re-read. I carefully opened the front cover.

_Ex Libris SH._

Well.

There were many people with those initials— in London, Paris, or any other place in the entire bloody world. It didn’t mean anything.

I had not read The Divine Comedy, but knew the plot basics. A man wanders in the woods and finds he is lost. The poet Vergil becomes his guide, leading him through Hell and Purgatory, and finally handing him off to Beatrice, who is his guide to Paradise. It’s an allegory, representing the soul’s journey to salvation.

Unaccountably, I thought of the anonymous sender of my Bible. I opened it now, to set the handwritten messages in each book side by side. There were not many letters to compare, however, and the writing in the Dante volume was all in block capitals. 

_What could this mean?_ The book had come from Paris, a place I had never been. It was written in Italian, a language I did not know. It bore the initials SH, which could stand for many names besides the one I thought of. And it was addressed to me, care of Mr Quick. Holmes would have figured it out in minutes, but I, full of hope and fear, could not bend my mind around these observations enough to make any sensible deduction.

If someone wanted to send me something, how would they find me? Not everyone who knew me would have known of my association with Mr Quick. Therefore, it must be someone who knew me well enough to make that connection.

If someone wanted to send me a message, but feared it might be intercepted, how would they send it? Holmes and his brother had often used codes and ciphers. I flipped through the pages of the book, looking for any written message. I saw some passages had been underlined in pencil; the inside cover writing was done with blue-black ink. Holmes would have been able to tell me the type of pen, the shape and width of the nib, the brand of ink, and the age of the writing. He would have known how tightly the writer had held the pen and how hard he pressed as he wrote. From this he might have deduced the character, profession, and age of the writer.

I could find no message in the pages. The book itself might, however, _be_ a message.

A book about a traveler, lost, moving through hostile lands, hoping to reach his home once more. A man who finds himself in Hell and fears he will never find the way out.

I turned the pages, wondering whose hands had last touched them. The pencil marks were old and smeared, whereas the _ex libris_ was much more recent.

My breath caught as I saw letters written in blue-black ink, as crisp as the writing on the inside cover. A date: _4 May 1891._ The day Holmes had fallen to his death.

Dead men do not send parcels. A man might go through Hell, though, without dying. A man might fall, but not die.

I thought of those days after his fall, the policemen who had investigated and solemnly informed me that he had undoubtedly died.

_No body was ever found._

I could not bring myself to ask the question. As I held the book in my hands, I closed my eyes. _Please,_ I prayed. _Please._

Not many weeks after my return, Stamford stopped by one evening with news. “There’s an opening at Barts,” he began. “I can get you an interview, if you’re willing.”

“What sort of work?”

“You’d be a caretaker.”

“Cleaning floors, emptying bins, doing maintenance?”

He nodded. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about being in a hospital in that capacity. But it’s a steady job, fair pay— enough to live on. And a caretaker apartment is provided.”

I was divided. In the few weeks since my return, I had begun re-entering the wider world. My visits to tend the various ills of the neighbourhood had not only given me a sense of purpose; the interactions with my neighbours helped me relearn how to socialise after the months of enforced silence. I had become at least half human again. But still, only half alive.

The other half of me remained scarred: I would never work as a doctor again, not legitimately. Nor would I ever again marry or have a family. I could not vote or run for office, own a gun or obtain a passport. Under current law, I must be employed or go to a workhouse.

Barts was where I’d done my training as a young surgeon. In those corridors I would undoubtedly see ghosts of my former self, an eager student learning his trade, a man as yet innocent of love, still full of dreams and hopes. It was an old institution, even older than Pentonville, and I expected that the echoing halls and gloomy hush of the place would remind me of the place I’d just left.

But I couldn’t stay with Simon and his family forever. I needed a job. The hospital was not far from Clerkenwell. I would live there on premises, obviating the need for a flat or transportation. I would be a fool not to step forward.

 _Outlast them, Watson. Survive for us all._ Those were Mycroft’s words to me, in his final letter. _Live your life as a Victory over Ignorance._

I had served my sentence, as I told him I would. I had lowered myself when I entered that prison, and had kept my head down, accepting the conditions of my incarceration. But I was not defeated. I could not expect to resume my life as if nothing had happened. Nor should I be afraid to live, always in fear of being seen by someone I’d formerly known, hearing whispers and receiving pitiful looks. Others might not respect me, but I must respect myself. I would find my purpose, eventually understand why I still lived.

Stamford was still looking at me, waiting for my answer. His look was not one of pity.

“Thank you,” I said. “If you can arrange it, I am willing.”

My father always said that there is no work that demeans a man. He valued ambition and wanted me and Harry to reach our full potential, but he would not have despised us if we had become cabdrivers or bricklayers, as long as we did our work with integrity and were content to live on what we earned. He encouraged Harry, who had not been cut out for university, but excelled at salesmanship. He supported my decision to go into medical work, not because it reflected well on him as a father or because he hoped I would become a famous surgeon, but because it was honest, necessary work that required skills I might learn.

After Harry lost the modest fortune our father left us, I used to think that Harry’s mistake with the railroad scheme would have killed our father. Over the years, though, I had come to understand him better. Henry Watson was conservative, and would have cautioned his son not to put all his eggs in one basket, but he saw that my brother’s gifts were different from his own, and would not have despised him for his mistakes.

Would he despise me? I asked myself this as I took up my bucket and mop and began swabbing the floors of St Barts. I hoped he would not. He would disapprove of my choices, and would surely find my failure to repent deplorable, but he would leave judgment to God. I think he would respect me for doing an honest job.

Filth can be deadly. Hospitals must be kept clean. I understood germ theory better than a layman, and made it my mission to keep the hospital as antiseptic as possible. There were still a few doctors who were careless about hand washing and sterilising equipment, but I would not contribute to such sloppiness. I would endeavour to make the hospital as hygienic as I could, always keeping in mind that people were killed by things that seemed insignificant, and lives could be saved by small precautions.

Many of the doctors I saw there were people known to me, former colleagues. Most treated me as if I were invisible, but I carried on with my work as if we were equal partners in caring for our patients. My father had always said that setting an example was more admirable than settling a score.

Mopping a floor and taking out the rubbish are not things that start a revolution, but they are still things that need to be done. As I sat in my cell at Pentonville, or climbed the treadmill, or ate my meagre prison meal, or lay upon my hard cot, my thoughts often went to vengeance, which is truly the motivation for many revolutions. There is a tipping point, when one more person begins to think that things are so terribly wrong that they can no longer be suffered. That is when an unruly mob begins to turn into a focused machine. Hopelessness becomes rage, which in turn becomes the engine of change.

I had nothing left to lose— my reputation ruined, my family gone, all my worldly goods taken. Humiliation, loneliness, and anger— these were all I had in prison. I thought about the men who were waging a campaign to take over the government— for them, I was just collateral damage, an irritation that they swatted down and forgot. I imagined their fall— _surely they would not succeed!_ — in great, gory detail. Thus I passed many hours in prison.

Fortunately my anger did not consume me. I survived, and now I was beginning to understand the meaning of my survival.

Revolution is a big word, but it has small beginnings. I thought of it more strategically now. A revolt did not succeed on heat alone; it required cool heads as well.There was a benefit in being insignificant, being the man who draws no one’s attention. The disgrace of John Watson, MD, companion to the famous consulting detective, writer of best-selling stories for the Strand, was notable because I’d been a public figure. My trial and imprisonment had been a warning to others not to challenge these men. Now fallen, John Watson— sweeper, mopper, emptier of bins and bedpans, a man who had nothing to lose— this man had some advantages that my former self had not. He might be just the man to start a revolution.

Mycroft had begged me to survive, to be the victory he would not live to see. I began to hope that I would not only outlast Moran; I dared to think I might bring him down. The means and method were not yet clear to me, but I had friends in the slums of London, people who had believed in Holmes and had not given up. I felt a harmony with these broken people, and an obligation to them. I thought of Joe Lestrade, Simon Thomas, Mike Stamford, and others who were already on the side of the angels. I would not be alone.

I had no illusion, however, that it would be easy.

My life fell into a routine.

I worked every day for nine hours, a half day on Saturday, and had Sundays off. On my free days I would return to the neighbourhood and tend the ill and injured. Mondays were the worst days at the hospital; then I had to deal with the consequences of any emergencies that came in over the weekend. There was another caretaker who handled the areas outside the building, two laundresses who managed the bedding and bandages, and a boy who assisted where needed, but the work was never over. This type of work never is, and I now had greater appreciation for the people who maintain order in our chaotic world.

I was given time for meals, which the hospital provided as part of my compensation. By lunchtime I could take my sandwich out into the garden, if it wasn’t too cold or rainy, or back down to my rooms, if the weather was bad. I would pick up a discarded newspaper most days and peruse the main stories, always with an eye to seeing what Moran’s gang was up to.

When I began to feel my confinement too closely, I would walk the neighbourhoods around the hospital. I rarely went into pubs, but sometimes Stamford or Simon Thomas met me for a drink. I could easily beat Stamford at darts; Simon was a tougher opponent.

My health improved, but I never recovered the appetite Holmes had always marvelled at. My body was thin, hard, and wiry. Every day I worked it to its limits, with the result that I was exhausted by evening, when the hospital closed to visitors and the day staff went home. I worked an hour after that, finally returning to my basement rooms, where I could heat up my soup on the hob and enjoy an hour or two of silence. Though my eyes were weaker, requiring spectacles now, I still enjoyed reading. In the evening, I would sit in my chair and immerse myself in Dickens or Russell or Stevenson, or some poetry when I grew tired of adventures. I often craved music, but there was none to be had.

When the weather once more began to turn cold and wet, my shoulder ached more than usual. I was accustomed to physical labour, but perhaps I was using different muscles now in this job. Or maybe my body was showing its age. Stamford had warned me that many ex-convicts are dead within two years of their release, succumbing to various ills.

“Once the spirit is broken, the body takes the path of least resistance,” he told me. “You must guard against despair. You’re a stronger man than that.”

One evening in December I sat in my room holding _La Divina Comedia_ in my hands. I had avoided thinking about the book, mysteriously arrived without any explanation. I thought I understood what its arrival meant, but the possibility that I was wrong was too painful to contemplate. In the life I now lived, hope was expensive, and fragile. I did not know if I could survive another loss like those I’d already experienced.

Months had gone by since I received the book. If it were a message from Holmes, he might be struggling to return, but that did not mean he would be successful. His life for the past years would have been difficult and dangerous, I assumed, and there was no reason to think he was out of danger. Moran might still be pursuing him, preventing him from coming home.

It occurred to me also that the book might be a cruel joke. We had made many enemies over the years, people who might wish to twist the knife that had stabbed my heart almost eight years ago. But it gave me comfort to hold it, to feel the leather binding and stroke the pages, thinking that he might have held it in those lovely, long hands, that he might have turned the pages and said the words to himself. I opened to the first page.

_Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita_

_mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,_

_ché la diritta via era smarrita._

I did not know Italian, but I’d studied Latin in school. Though I remembered little, the words were similar enough to the Caesar I’d struggled through as a boy that I thought I might glean some meaning from them.

 _... una selva oscura..._ A wood obscure... a dark forest.

The trees of Reichenbach rose up in my mind, the steep slope down to the falls, the rushing waters. I remembered climbing that path behind him, something warning me that I might lose him. I remembered the boy who arrived with a note, the ominous feeling I had, and how I had left him reluctantly. I was not there when it happened. Perhaps he had not gone over, but had left the path, running into the woods, losing his way in his haste to escape.

 _... esta selva selvaggia e aspra..._ this wood... a savage wood, perhaps... a rough wood...

 _Tant’ e amara che poco e piu morte..._ Bitter... death is little more...

How could so much time have passed? For so long, I’d kept Reichenbach close, within reach. The rush of those waters I heard in my dreams. If I could hear it, I only need turn and feel the spray on my face. Then I might hurry back, arriving in time. _This time, I might save him…_

I startled awake. Realising that I’d drifted off, I heated the kettle again and prepared to make a fresh cup of tea. 

As the water came to a boil, someone knocked on my door. Assuming it was the boy, calling me to clean a mess or fix something broken, I turned off the flame and went to open the door.

It was Simon. I noted his agitation, but before I could speak, he said, “Doctor Watson, you must come with me at once.”

“What’s happened?” I stuck my feet into my boots and began to pull the laces. When he did not speak, I looked up at him and saw tears on his face. “Dear God, Simon! Has someone died? Who is it?”

He took my hands in his. I could feel them trembling. “Doc, you’re a praying man.” His voice shook.

I nodded. Mostly out of habit, I still prayed before I fell asleep at night, though I was fairly sure no one was listening. _Please,_ I said each night. _Please._ That was all. A habit only, my hope a tiny flame I dare not fan too hard. “Simon, please tell me.”

“It’s him,” he whispered. “Himself.”

“Who?”

“He’s come back. Two of our boys found him at the docklands. Must’ve come in on a freight ship.”

“Simon— whom did they find?”

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. Himself.”

He put his arms around me. From this, I concluded that my knees had given way.

“What?” I felt him easing me back into the chair. “What did you say?”

He leaned over me, his eyes bright. “He’s alive, Doc. You said they never found his body, and that’s because he didn’t die. He’s alive.”

“How…” The room had begun to swim around me.

“I don’t know how, but it’s him. I saw him myself. He’s bad sick though, Doc. We brought him here, to the charity ward. There’s no doctor on duty, so they just laid him down in one of the beds. Please, Doc. You have to come, see what you can do for him.”

He finally convinced me that I was not hallucinating, and I went with him. A man was sick— I understood that much. He could not be Sherlock Holmes, who was dead.

Two nurses were hovering over the bed, one with water and the other sponging the flushed face. Simon’s boys were standing nearby, looking on with with something like wonder. The body on the bed lay still, then began to shudder. I noted that he was breathing shallowly. Chills and fever.

I took the man’s wrist and felt his pulse— rapid, but strong. I heard the rattle of mucus when he breathed. _Please. Please._

“Mr Watson,” said one of the nurses. “You must not—“

“ _Doctor_ Watson,” said Simon. “He’s a doctor, and he’s going to examine this man.”

Keeping myself in doctor mode, trying not to think about who this man was or how much he looked like Holmes, I gently pried open one of the eyes. _Please._

A pair of pale grey eyes regarded me. “Watson,” he rasped. Then he began to cough.

The nurse with the glass of water got him to take a sip, then two.

“Salicin,” I said to the other nurse. “It’s an anti-pyretic. Go find some.”

The nurses scuttled off.

I laid my hand on his heated forehead, looking into the beloved face I’d never thought to see again. The hair was greying at the temples, the face thinner, but the eyes were watching me with a familiar intensity.

“Influenza,” I said. “He needs… he needs… _Oh, please_ …”

My bedside manner was crumbling. I felt my body begin to tremble from the inside out, my heart beating against my ribs, breaking all the armour that had been protecting me, sending tremors though my blood and nerves and rattling my bones. Tears streamed from my eyes, the edges of my visual field were darkening, and my ears were filled with the sounds of someone, maybe me, sobbing. I leaned over him, my hands holding the precious face. Everything else disappeared.

“Oh, my dear,” I whispered. “My darling boy.”

“John,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

He had survived, and so had I. Now we would begin to understand why.


End file.
